


Beyond the Grave

by Veskittles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gen, I'm also bad at tags, I'm too much of a baby to put really scary things, Implied Death, Light Horror, M/M, exorcist/ghost au, nothing particularly explicit though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-07-29 00:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veskittles/pseuds/Veskittles
Summary: Everyone's got a hobby, right? It just so happens that Crowley's hobby is exorcising ghosts. Well, 'exorcising' is a little harsh; he just... encourages them to shimmy over to the Other Side. It's better than having them mope around Earth, at least.A series of short stories following the exorcist Crowley and his spectral partner Aziraphale!





	1. Broken Necks and Starry Skies

“Humans created speed limitations for a  _ reason _ , Crowley.”

As one lives, one is bound to be assaulted by the unexpected. They can be pleasant random occurrences, like a raise from work or an extra chicken nugget in your meal of 6-pack nuggets with fries. They can be quite irksome unpredictable events, like someone stealing your car or finding only 5 nuggets in your meal of 6-pack nuggets with fries.

In this instance, the unexpected instance that was currently assaulting Anthony J. Crowley was the notion that a ghost could be afraid of getting into a car crash.

Crowley turned his head to the other man languidly. “You’re  _ dead _ , Aziraphale. Shouldn’t be any of your business how fast I’m driving, you’d survive either way. Or be dead either way. However you wanna look at it.”

“Yes but it would be terribly inconvenient for you if you died.” While his fists were balled in his lap, Aziraphale gave him a quick glance. “Oh for heaven’s sake, if you insist on driving like a hooligan at least watch the road! Please,” he added, remembering his manners.

With a dramatic huff, Crowley swung back to face the road as he swerved on a tight bend. He heard the ghost let out a small gasp. Could ghosts even feel the effects of physics? Or was Aziraphale just being dramatic? After all these years, he still couldn’t figure out what the rules of the dead were.

He’d been able to see ghosts for as long as he could remember. Not that always knew they were ghosts; whenever he described the hulking, disfigured or profusely bleeding entities to others, they assumed he just had an overactive imagination with a morbid flare. He thought, well, they must be those ‘imaginary friends’ that everyone goes on about all the time. But no, they were ghosts. He learned not to mention this ability in any serious capacity; telling people he saw dead people would either bring about teasing, endless questioning, or an unhealthy serving of both.

He spoke to the ghosts on occasion, but they could be pretty awkward. They  _ were _ living people once, after all. It’s not like you magically gain social skills when you turn into an undead. Most people don’t appreciate being walked up to by a stranger for a chat while they’re going about their own business, regardless of their erm, living situation. And having a knife in one’s chest or whatever other marking of death one bore could make one feel extremely self-conscious during conversation.

Anyway, it’s not like ghosts were more interesting than living people. They were about the same level of interesting. Both the living and the dead feel the same emotions, had many of the same anxieties, had many of the same eccentricities. For Crowley, ghosts were more faces in the crowd, not anyone special to gawk at.

But Aziraphale was special.

For one, Aziraphale didn’t look like a ghost. Well, yes, Crowley could see through him if he really tried to. Bit hard to see through people when he wore sunglasses all the time, though. Usually ghosts make it pretty obvious that they’re ghosts. They’re marked by distortions that are the manifestations of their regrets. Usually, people who died by accident or via someone’s hand will bear the marks of the thing that killed them. Others who have more existential regrets, like regrets of things they did or didn’t do while alive or regrets tied to other people or other personal anxieties, will have their bodies far more warped. For example, he once met a man who had hair growing from where his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears should have been. The ghost had been quite chatty despite not having a functional mouth that Crowley could see, telling him that his regret must have been tied to the fact that he’d turned bald from a very young age. A strange regret, but strange is just how people are.

But Aziraphale didn’t have any ghastly mark that Crowley could discern. He honestly mistook him for one of the living when they first met. A living person with very out of fashion clothes, but hey, it’s the 21 st century. There are people who unironically walk around in Victorian garb in central London all the time. Or was Aziraphale wearing Edwardian clothing? Oh, nevermind. Point being, he looked just like any other living breathing person. Not even a mark on his clothes to indicate any sort of foul play. His clothes had a bit of wear but that’s just because Aziraphale, you know, wore them. Spectral clothes tended to take the same form as it did just before the person died, if clothing wasn’t tied to their regrets.

“So, what’s the deal this time? Haunted house? Spooky factory? Some spirit lurking around a dog kennel?”

“I thought you read the electronic mail before we left!”

“I did. Looked at the address.”

“Well  _ obviously _ you didn’t read it thoroughly.”

Crowley silently mimicked Aziraphale’s chiding, mouthing his words with a scrunched face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale’s hand dissipate into vapours and enter Crowley’s phone. That’s another thing special to Aziraphale: he could possess things.

And, yes, ghosts could possess things, sure. That’s their MO. But it’s rare for a ghost to be able to do that, and usually what they could possess could influence is tied with their regret. The hair ghost, for example, could influence people’s hair and give them a rather bad hair day. Crowley got to witness it in action and was grateful that he was not on the receiving end of that ghost’s boredom.

Yet Aziraphale could possess or influence quite a range of inanimate objects. Mostly, he used his influence to turn the pages on books so he could read them. As he was demonstrating at this moment, he could easily use technology if he so wished. Crowley very much doubted that Aziraphale had some all-encompassing regret that allowed him to influence anything and everything in the material world; it seemed to him that Aziraphale just had an amazing grasp of his spectral form and the abilities that accompanied it.

“Um, Crowley, how do I access your electronic mail?”

“Open the app with the mail letter thingy. It’s literally called ‘Mail’, angel.”

“The app? Oh, you’re referring to these square icons... Ah, yes! Here it is. Now, let’s see.”

The final thing that made Aziraphale special and worthy of Crowley’s attention was that he was incredibly keen to help others. That wasn’t because ghosts weren’t helpful by nature or anything like that, it was just a basic human thing. Most people don’t go the extra mile to help others. Most people certainly don’t go around helping people when they had nothing to gain from it. Aziraphale, a literal ghost, wouldn’t even receive a lick of gratitude from their earthly clients. Did it have to tie in with his regret? Crowley doubted it, else he would have been dispelled from helping out other ghosts in their cases. Aziraphale was simply that fascinating. There were plenty enough reasons for Crowley to stick around with Aziraphale.

Oh, by the way, they ran an exorcism business. Well, Crowley ran it, technically. Their clients had no idea that his partner for the exorcisms was a ghost. Also, ‘business’ was a bit of a serious term. It was more of a hobby, really.

“Ah! Our case is just at the university campus,” Aziraphale said, glancing up to ensure they were on the right path. Then he realised he wouldn’t have known what the ‘right’ path was anyway and continued reading the email. “Our clients are a pair of students. According to this, they were behind their Chemistry building and had been working on a project late at night-”

“Mhm, doing very important ‘chemistry’ work, I’m sure.”

“- and claim to have heard shuffling in the nearby shrubbery. Soon after, they saw a figure that they described as ‘probably a woman with long hair’ coming closer. Upon closer inspection, they realised that her neck was irregularly bent and broken, and she was not walking, but, rather, floating. Oh dear, that must have given them quite a fright. I do hope they’re okay.”

“They’ll live. Chemistry building, yeah?” Crowley didn’t so much park as essentially throw his car into the parking space. Or what was presumably was a parking space, Crowley didn’t care enough to check and Aziraphale was too rattled.

“Y-yes, the Chemistry building. My dear boy, how in the heavens did you pass your driving examination?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley yanked his phone from his possession. Aziraphale wiggled his fingers a little as they came to their normal form, before turning to open the door and exit the vehicle.

“You don’t need to open the door, Aziraphale, you can just go through it,” grumbled Crowley, wilfully ignoring Aziraphale’s comment.

“That would be rather rude wouldn’t it? Now, to enter the campus…”

“I could hop over the fence.”

“ _ Or _ ,” said Aziraphale, shooting him an exasperated look, “you could enter through the gate.” He cocked his head over to the side, gesturing at the very clearly open gate under some well-lit lamps.

Crowley looked at the black iron fence, the pointed tips hovering over him at a height that he couldn’t realistically climb without getting injured. “Eeeh. Fair point.” And soon he was side by side with Aziraphale, entering the campus at a matching pace.

Aziraphale thought the campus itself was rather lovely. The air began to settle and cool, embracing the lush gardens and wrapping around buildings seasoned with age. Lamps began to flicker to life, creating a soft and sombre atmosphere down the cobblestone walkways. The perfect place to cultivate enthusiastic study. Perhaps in his spare time he could sneak off into the library and peruse a little. He’d heard they’d housed quite a few old and rare books here, and a ghost couldn’t damage the delicate, time-worn pages, so he was sure the staff wouldn’t be opposed. Well, he  _ probably _ wouldn’t damage it.

Crowley, on the other hand, peered at the exhausted students stumbling out of the ancient and aging building. Late night study, huh? Oof. Glad he was past that part of his life. The relative silence was rather unnerving to him. University, as he remembered it, was meant to be a place from not-quite-adults to make some noise, discover a thing or two about their limits. It wasn’t meant to be graveyard dead. Hell, Aziraphale seemed to be the only ghost person here. Fair enough, really. He wouldn’t choose to haunt a university either.

“Shall we come up with a plan?” asked Aziraphale.

Crowley frowned slightly. “When have we ever made a plan and actually stuck to it? We just do like we always do: talk to the ghost, figure out what’s bugging them, and send them on their way. That’s always the plan.”

“Surely we could be a bit more prepared than that. We could- ah.” Aziraphale stopped walking. Or floating. He stopped moving, basically. He drew up a hand to his chin in thought. “Oh, I feel them. They’re frightfully sad.”

“Yeah, well, I’m guessing most people don’t fancy being dead.” Crowley eyed Aziraphale for confirmation.

Aziraphale gave a light shrug. “I suppose. Although, you do grow somewhat accustomed to it.”

“So which way, angel? Where’s the girl at?” Crowley gave a quick survey of their surroundings. “Actually, don’t answer that. They said she was roundabout the Chemistry building, right?” In the distance, there was a greyish, square building with ‘CHEMISTRY’ labelled on it. Duh.

“…”

“… Aziraphale? Can you sense her there?”

“Oh, did you want me to answer or not?”

Crowley snapped his head to face the ghost, who was only barely successful in hiding a smirk. “Tch! C’mon.” He walked a little faster than their normal gait, towards the Chemistry building. Only when Crowley wasn’t looking did Aziraphale allow himself to look pleased, breaking into a grin that lit up every fibre of his being. Maybe he did literally light up. Crowley wouldn’t know, he wasn’t looking.

Rounding the corner to view the back of the building, he noted that it indeed was the kind of place that people would enjoy having a rendezvous… ah, sorry, enjoy ‘doing a project’. There was a little bench that overlooked the wide sports oval and the cloudless and star-dappled sky. The view was neatly framed by tidy trees and waist high shrubbery. Crowley’s eyes softened behind his sunglasses as he bore witness to the fresh sky. There was something about the vast expanse of the universe and the stars that marked it that was… comforting. As though each heavenly body shone to remind them that they were never truly alone.

… Okay, now that he thought about it, that was a little creepy. He’d meant it in a far more romantic way, but uh… oh nevermind.

The soft glow to his side indicated that Aziraphale had caught up with him. Ghosts were a bit more obviously glow-y and transparent in the darkness. He looked at him from the corner of his eye, fully expecting Aziraphale to comment on how lovely the scenery was.

“Oh, what a lovely view!”

See? Crowley began to pace around Aziraphale, eyes flicking about like a serpent’s tongue. “Yes, it is. But no girl, or any other ghosts. Can you sense her?” he repeated, not catching anything in the darkness beyond the shrubbery.

“Hm. Well, the sadness hasn’t yet faded but- Oh. Oh my. Crowley, there!” Aziraphale pointed down the hill leading down into the oval. Crowley hastened his pacing so he could stand by Aziraphale’s side once more. He raised his eyebrow.

There she was, fitting the description to the bill. A woman with shoulder length, raven black hair. Or it probably would be shoulder length, if her neck wasn’t snapped at a near perfect 90-degree angle. The neck snap thing was the most remarkable thing about her, though, she wore a light blue jumper and loose-fitting denim pants. With clothes like that, she could have died any point in the past 40 odd years. They were a bit too far to determine any other features about her.

She began to drift up painfully slowly at them. After a few minutes of watching this, Crowley stepped forward and called out to her, “Oi, you! Did you want us to come meet you halfway or something?!”

She paused. Probably puzzled by the fact that this living man was not afraid of her. Seeing someone floating at you with a very broken neck wasn’t exactly the most inviting thing, as she was probably very aware. A loud choking noise emanated from her, but it stopped as soon as the noise began. The ghost was still for a little while longer, before resuming her ascent.

“… Alright! We’ll wait up here, then!”

“Oh, the poor dear… It doesn’t appear that she’s able to speak. And she seems to be in a terrible amount of pain… Oh I do hope we can aid her.”

“There goes the whole ‘talking to her’ part of the plan.” Crowley paused. “… Hold on. Ghosts can still feel pain?”

“Hm? Why, of course we can!”

“Ah- wha-?! Don’t ‘of course’ me, I thought that being a ghost means you don’t have to deal with all this earthly body stuff! Including feeling bodily thingies, like  _ pain _ !”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Crowley. I understand as much about the workings of my spectral visage as you do the workings of your mortal body. I do guarantee you though, if another spectre decided to punch me, I would definitely feel it.”

“… Is that why you don’t let me put my hands through you? Can you feel it when I do that?”

“No, I can’t. I don’t let you do that because it’s  _ rude _ .”

Before Crowley could retort with a haughty ‘who decided that that was rude?’, the woman had made it to the top of the hill and stopped at distance that was reasonable enough to maintain a conversation. Now they could see her features clearly. She was of a university-attending age, as they probably should have guessed. Perhaps early twenties or late teens? Her mouth hinged open in a lax and silent scream, revealing cracked and splintered teeth. Her eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, now only leaving black holes.

Honestly not the most terrifying ghost Crowley and Aziraphale had ever witnessed. But it wasn’t exactly a comfortable experience for them either.

“Ah, hello,” Aziraphale began. “I am Aziraphale, and this fellow here is Crowley. We’re here to help you, ah, move on, so to speak.”

“Yeah, you’re scaring the shit outta the kids on campus.”

Aziraphale gave him a pointed glance, before turning back to the woman. She didn’t seem to mind Crowley’s comment. But then again, it seemed pretty difficult to pull any expression besides ‘horrified screeching’ with those specific ghost markings. Neither were entirely sure where she was looking either. “Don’t mind him, he’s nice, really.”

“I’m  _ not _ nice.”

“So, how may we be of service to you?”

With a gentleness that didn’t reflect her appearance, she took Aziraphale’s hands and gave him a squeeze that he could only guess was gratitude. Oh, wait, yes, her aura changed to emit gratitude. She floated over to Crowley to do the same, but it quite predictably went through him. Crowley nodded in acknowledgement, getting the gist of what her gestures meant.

“Alright, where’s your regret, then?”

Aziraphale let out a small sigh. He did wish his partner would at least try to be less callous, but he supposed that’s just how Crowley was.

The woman made a gesture for them to follow her and led them a bit further into the darkness. She stopped at the base of one of the larger trees and pointed at the branches. The two men stood on either side of her, looking up at the tree before meeting each other’s gaze. Aziraphale made a little nod with his head, as if to say ‘well, go on then’.

Crowley scowled lightly. “… Oh, all right.” He was going to complain a little more, but it would be quicker if he just did it. Aziraphale said that if a regret was satisfied by one of the living, then it would work better in sending them on their way. Otherwise, Crowley wouldn’t be doing any of this. (Or at least, that’s what he  _ claimed _ .)

Fortunately for them all, Crowley thought himself quite a good tree climber. He swore he must have been a snake in a past life. His motions in slinking up the tree were far more smooth and graceful than his actual walking habits. He wasn’t trying to be a complete show off, though. He was only trying to be a little showy. For the most part, he was engaged in finding… whatever that woman was pointing at.

He rested on a particularly thick and sturdy branch to take in his surroundings. Nothing but tree, as far as he could tell. Then again, it was the dead of the night. He was also wearing sunglasses, that certainly made finding something in the dark much harder. He looked down from his perch, at the two faintly luminous ghosts. Aziraphale seemed to be striking a conversation with the woman. Now what was the point of that? It’s not like she could speak back, or express if she wanted to be spoken to or not. Well, he was allowed to do whatever suited him.

While looking around, he did a double take to gaze at the sky. It shouldn’t have been possible, but the night sky looked even more fantastic from up here. He played with the idea of calling Aziraphale up to share the sky with him. Hm, perhaps it would look better if he scaled further up.

As he prepared to go higher, he felt something non-treelike on the trunk. A chain? He yanked it off from where it was caught. No, a pendant. It was a pretty simple one. Silver, shaped like a flat circle, rusty and battered by the elements. It looked like it had been caught in the bark. A miracle it hadn’t fallen yet.

He squinted at the leafy mess above him. It took a little time to adjust, but he could make out the splinters where the tree hadn’t completely healed from losing an appendage. “…” He looked back down at the pendant in his palm. “Thanks for the warning,” he murmured. He better find a more sturdy tree if he wanted to show Aziraphale the beautiful galaxy.

“Oi,” he said as he slinked down to the ground, landing with all the grace of a cat. Both Aziraphale and the woman turned to him. Or Aziraphale did at least, giving him a pleasant quizzical expression. He guessed she was looking at him. He held out his hand, showing the pendant. “This what you were looking for?”

She floated to him, presumably peering at his hand. She reached out and tried to stroke the pendant, so close to the thing that kept her bound to this earth, yet still separated from it by an entire plane of existence.

The next part never stopped being something completely strange to witness. She began to glow with a luminosity that was oddly bright for even ghosts. Her hair fluttered in a wind that only she could feel. Soon, the light began to envelop her body, pieces of her disappearing into an expanse unknown any and all present. Crowley looked at her rather mangled face. Maybe it was just his imagination, but her skin looked less sickly, and her eyes less sunken. And he was fairly sure that this was completely imagined, but he thought he saw tears welling deep in the dark voids of her eyes.

Then she was gone.

Out of respect, both men stood still for a minute or two. A final farewell of sorts. Just something they wordlessly agreed upon whenever they helped someone cross. Aziraphale was beaming at Crowley.

“I know you can’t feel it, but, my dear boy, she departed truly happy. You did a wonderful job.”

Crowley pursed his lips to prevent any unwarranted emotion from slipping through. “Yeah, sure. Good. Now we gotta get those kids to PayPal us for the whole exorcism thing.”

“Pay… Pal?”

“It’s a payment platform.” Nope, Aziraphale didn’t seem to comprehend that either. “Like credit cards, but you don’t use a card. You just go online, make the transaction, and boom. More money in your pocket.”

“I… see,” said Aziraphale, who clearly didn’t see at all. He still was rather stuck in attempting to comprehend why anyone would wish to pay for goods and services via any other means than cash.

As Aziraphale tackled his dilemma, Crowley looked at the plain, rusted pendant in his hand. “What the heck am I supposed to do with this now?”

“Keep it? It would serve as a nice token to remember this whole affair and,” Aziraphale looked out across the oval once more, “this gorgeous view by.”

“What use would I have for a remembrance token, angel?” grumbled Crowley. “C’mon, time to go home.”

Aziraphale smiled as he pretended not to notice how carefully Crowley tucked the pendant in his pocket. What use, indeed.


	2. Restless Sleep and So-Called Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley are called to help a hotel in need.

There were quite a lot of things that Aziraphale missed about being alive. He missed the pages of old books as they lightly brushed against his fingertips, or the heat of candles or a hearth as he cuddled and settled for a comfortable night of reading...

Oh, and food! He missed _ everything _ about food! The gentle warmth of an aromatic hot cocoa betwixt his hands, the soft and yet crisp texture of freshly-baked pastries (preferably from France, it seemed only the French knew how to do _ anything _ correctly with their sweet pastries), ice cream so creamy that it tickled your tongue and simply delighted all the senses, oh! How he missed food! He lamented that he could no longer try any of these new foods that have come into the country since he’d been inconveniently detached from the mortal world. This ‘sushi’ often caught glimpses of looked utterly scrumptious- Wait, what was the point of all this again? ... Ah, right.

There were quite a few things that Aziraphale missed about being alive. But Crowley was ever so kind as to remind him that he definitely did not miss sleeping.

Crowley was rather haphazardly sprawled over his bed, to the point where Aziraphale was not entirely sure which parts of the silken jumble were the man’s limbs and which parts were just oddly angled bed sheets. His hair was currently a complete and utter disaster, with little poofs sticking out in every angle imaginable. A major difference from the rather lovingly styled hairstyle that Crowley cultivated. (Aziraphale smiled to himself. Oh how Crowley would hate to be described as such. ‘I didn’t do anything _ lovingly _’, he’d be sure to claim. ‘I do things with effortless coolness’, or some funny terminology like that.)

Oh dear, that was quite a drool puddle forming. Had he really looked like that when he slept? Or was Crowley just, erm, special? He wasn’t entirely sure; he didn’t make a habit of observing other people’s sleeping patterns. He knew some ghosts were fond of viewing situations to which they were previously not privy to view. It was the whole point of being a spirit, some may claim. But Aziraphale preferred to respect the privacy of both the living and the dead. People created walls around their hearts for a reason. People choose which doors to open, and which people should be let in. Why, without these mental constructions to protect oneself, one would fall apart. He understood that all too well.

That being said, he _ was _ watching Crowley sleep… B-But this was different! He wasn’t watching over him due to some appalling, perverse interest. He was… merely waiting upon him so they could... conduct business. Yes! He was here because they were business partners. He definitely was waiting so they could resume business once Crowley had awoken. Yes, nothing odd here about this situation, just two business partners in a bedroom. Readying themselves to do some… strictly professional business things. Naturally. Why would anything otherwise be assumed?

Aziraphale had snapped out of his internal panic in time to see Crowley about to violently turn over in his sleep. Oh no, he would-! “Crowley-!”

Ah. Too late. Crowley didn’t even scream, it was far too sudden and short of a fall for that. Somewhere in the mass of black silken sheets, Aziraphale heard groaning. Soon after, he could make out a muffled and groggy voice saying, “Mind giving a hand, angel?”

“Oh, of course. Erm…” Aziraphale floated over the mass, spotting a tuft of violently red hair and the occasional patch of pale skin numbly wiggling in the silk. “How should I-? Rather, how would you like to-?”

“Possess the sheets off of me.”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale disappeared. Soon enough, Crowley was left limp on the ground, with the sheets hovering above him. Crowley squinted straight ahead with his arms splayed out. Kinda looked like a crappy DIY night sky that you’d see in a high school play.

Aziraphale started to make the bed, but Crowley reached to the side, tugging on the sheets. “Leave ‘em. I’ll fix it myself later.”

“I’m already in here, I may as well do it myself,” the sheets retorted.

“You’re tucking them in lengthways, Aziraphale.” Crowley had gotten somewhat used to being awake again, and watched as the sheets sullenly rose and righted themselves. Crowley didn’t know sheets could look sullen, but there you go. He sat up slowly, loosely crossing his legs. “Why’re you here anyway?”

The sheets crumpled a bit. “Ah. Well. That’s. Hm.”

An air of amusement just short of a smile came over Crowley. “Came to enjoy the view, did you?” He extended a leg in mock seduction to emphasise his question.

He had been flustered by the initial question, Aziraphale would admit. However, the thought of Crowley’s unceremonious sleeping habits constituting any sort of ‘enjoyable’ view was so laughable that Aziraphale had almost completely regained his composure. “I am here to tell you to check your electronic mail. We have another request.” Feeling that he’d done a decent enough job, he reappeared, seated with perfect posture at the edge of the bed.

Of course, Aziraphale was gambling. He had utterly no idea if they had a request or not. Crowley had groped at the drawer for his phone and scrolled through it. Aziraphale held in a non-existent breath. Crowley remained silent.

“Keen aren’t you, angel?” Aziraphale froze. What does that mean? Did his gamble not pay off? “They don’t need us there ‘til later tonight.”

Oh. Phew. “I only saw the notification, I wasn’t aware of the details. I was waiting for you to awaken before reading.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite figure out the look Crowley was giving him. Was he irate? No, it was too soft to be irritation. “I don’t care if you use my phone, angel,” he said, his tone as undecipherable as his expression. “I trust you.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I would still rather not use your possessions without you knowing,” he said, hoping his voice remained even and amiable. Crowley made some kind of noise, and postured to throw his phone away. “Make sure to read it thoroughly this time.”

Crowley’s expression did seem like one of irritation now. He nearly reached out and put his hand through Aziraphale. But he didn’t. He wanted to get back at Aziraphale for being annoyingly correct, not make him refuse to speak to him for a week or two. Instead, he grabbed the edge of the bed that didn’t have Aziraphale resting on it, and pulled himself up, plopping next to the ghost. Aziraphale had no presence of which to speak of, but Crowley swore he could feel him leaning close to read the message. 

It was a request from the manager at a hotel. Business had been going rather well as of late, they were blessed with a steady flow of guests. That is, until odd things began to occur. They were rather small things at first, taps not shutting off completely or lights refusing to turn on. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. But then guests began to complain about loud noises, yelling and carrying on, from neighbouring rooms, but every time the staff checked the general direction from where these noises were claimed to be, they were from unoccupied rooms. A pest problem, perhaps? But even after calling pest control, the complaints continued.

The hotel manager goes on to explain that they had believed it may have been foul play. Someone planting remotely activated sound devices in the rooms or something. Naturally, the appropriate professionals were contacted to ensure that this was not the case, that there were no odd technological doohickies in the hotel. It would be rather bad for business if that were the case. But no, nothing was found, and the noises continued.

The final straw was when a guest claimed to have been attacked by her own clothing. (“Oh how dreadful,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley coughed to hide his amusement.) She had run through the halls screaming, drawing a few other guests from their rooms. After finding some poor staff member, the staff and a small posse of curious guests all went to her room, and they bore witness to a floating parade of pretty dresses and lingerie. The clothing had apparently paused mid-parade, before throwing themselves at the unwelcome viewers. The staff had the presence of mind to slam the door shut before they made contact, and they and all the appropriately terrified guests ran away.

The manager seemed loathe to rely on a supernatural remedy, but a few other members of staff had vehemently refused to go to work until something had been done about the ‘ghosts’. Also a few scathing reviews about ‘ghost attacks’ had popped up into the hotel’s TripAdvisor, Yelp, and Google Reviews pages, and the owner feared any further damage to their reputation.

“They’re sites where you can leave reviews about shops and restaurants,” Crowley explained, noticing the ghost’s furrowed brow.

“On the Internet?”

“Yup.”

“Hm, well I suppose it may be more efficient than placing opinions into the local newspaper.”

“It’s definitely more efficient.” He swerved up from the bed and onto his feet in a single graceful motion. “We’ll catch up later then.”

Oh, yes, forgot to mention, Crowley had a day job. The exorcism business did produce a fair amount of money (it was pay as you like, and since they really solved spectral issues, people did pay handsomely), but it wasn’t enough to live on, and it certainly wasn’t enough for a single man to have a spacious apartment all to himself in the middle of London. So he had to work. Although, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what Crowley did during the day, and when asked he would feebly reply with, “Oh, y’know. Normal work things.”

Aziraphale didn’t pressure him any further. Perhaps he was just embarrassed to admit he had an office job. Not that Aziraphale thought anything bad of office workers! He was sure they worked very hard at… whatever they did! But it wouldn’t match the whole vibration that Crowley wished to emit, thus he may find it embarrassing.

The ghost got to his feet as well, with much less grace. Which was weird, considering that Aziraphale didn’t have to fiddle with gravity or physics, which meant he could move with an eerie smoothness if he wished to. A thought bubbled in his mind. “Did you know that a new cafe just opened?”

“Oh?” Crowley glanced at him as he rummaged through his wardrobe. All the clothes in it were lavishly stylish, they just happened to be in varying shades of grey and black, with the occasional splash of red.

“Yes, they have wooden chairs washed in white and rather rustic tables. At a glance, it seemed absolutely charming! Here’s hoping that their pastries have been given the same attention to detail. I’ll be off to scout whether it is worth it for us to visit. I shall see you later then, my dear boy.” And off Aziraphale drifted, hands clasped behind his back. Crowley’s gaze lingered on Aziraphale’s back for a second more than platonically advised, before going back to decide between a dark grey pair of jeans and a darker grey pair of jeans.

~O~

“That dog wasn’t even close to the car.”

“It was, and _ you _ almost hit it.”

Crowley shut the door and sauntered over to Aziraphale’s side, eyeing him as he straightened his bowtie and coat. “Ehhh, it’s a matter of perspective.”

Aziraphale gave him a long suffering look, but then switched his gaze over to the hotel. It was a rather modest hotel, looking much like the other closely packed buildings to either side of it, as was a common sight in London’s dense neighbourhoods.

“You’d think a place like this would be thrilled to have ghosts haunting it,” Crowley pondered aloud, observing the foot traffic. It wasn’t completely barren of living and dead folk, but it was quite an unassuming street. “Would set it apart from all the other hotels in the neighbourhood.”

“Yes, but hotels ordinarily don’t wish to keep anything that may harm their guests, regardless of their spectral nature.”

“You never know. Someone might be into that.” Crowley opened the front door. To someone who couldn’t see ghosts, it may look as if this man was just taking his time taking in the interior as he held the door open. And it was a nice interior, modern decor to counter the old-ish exterior. But no, he was just holding the door open for Aziraphale. The ghost gave him a soft ‘thank you’.

It was always interesting to do missions where they had to be in the company of living people. Mainly because Aziraphale could speak to Crowley, but Crowley couldn’t reply without looking like a madman. So by ‘interesting’, it is meant that it is extremely infuriating.

Crowley approached the peppy youth at the reception counter, resting his arm on the cool surface. “Good evening, sir, and welcome! What may I help you with today?” said the youth, like a well oiled machine.

“Now, Crowley, be subtle-” Aziraphale began, making some kind of hand motion to indicate the delicacy of the situation.

“I’m here about the ghost problem,” Crowley said in the least subtle way he could muster, short of yelling. Aziraphale deflated beside him.

The youth dropped their customer service face and looked at Crowley nervously. “You’re the ghost exterminator?”

“Exterminator, exorcist, whatever you wanna call it, sure. Your boss around? Gotta speak with ‘em.”

“I-I’ll call him up right away!” The youth then fumbled with the phone receiver as they dialed up their manager.

“_ Exterminator _?” Aziraphale exclaimed. “They make it sound like ghosts are pests! Oh, the nerve-!” From behind his sunglasses, Crowley hid his amusement as he watched Aziraphale as he fumed about the poor word choice. But then his eyes flicked to the side. Did something move? He didn’t hear the door open, or any footsteps on the wood floorings.

“Oi,” Crowley hissed. Nope, Aziraphale was still rambling. “_ Oi _.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the youth piped, thinking the rude interjection was directed at them. “The manager just has some business to attend to; they’ll be with you shortly.”

“Uh, right. I’ll just wait… there.” He waved his hand in the general direction of ‘not here’ and did a complete 180 degree turn so the youth couldn’t see him glowering at Aziraphale.

“Sorry my dear, I got a bit carried away.”

“Just a bit, huh?”

“What was it you were going to say?”

“Something moved behind us. Didn’t seem alive. You sense anything?”

“Ah, give me a moment.” Honestly, Crowley didn’t quite understand how this whole ability for ghosts to sense other ghosts worked. Aziraphale couldn’t offer any more of an explanation for it, he just said it was like gaining another sense. And he’d grown accustomed to it to the point of being unable to explain it. It’d be like explaining sight to something that couldn’t see. “Well, there are a number of ghosts in the vicinity. The closest feeling I can sense is… disgust?”

“Is it heading further into the building?”

“It seems so.”

Crowley turned his head. “Hey, you, reception kid.”

The youth stood to attention. ‘Yes sir?”

“Your boss going to take much longer?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure how much longer-”

“I’m gonna explore a little.” And with that, Crowley went into the hallway, in the general direction he thought the figure had gone off to.

“Sorry!” Aziraphale said quickly to the stunned youth, before following Crowley. He didn’t really need to because the youth couldn’t hear him, but he felt obliged regardless. “Crowley, you can’t just do that!”

“Do what?”

“Walk into a hotel without permission!”

“But I just did it, angel. So where’d this disgusted ghost get off to?”

Aziraphale exhaled deeply, “Just… follow me.”

Ghosts tend to move as the crow flies, since they weren’t particularly bothered by walls or other physical objects. Regardless, Aziraphale tended to follow the confines of the physical world. This was partially due to habit, partially because he felt it was only right to respect the architect’s design, and partially because he didn’t want Crowley to do ridiculous things like jump out of windows when following him.

Soon enough, they found themselves out in the small, neat hotel courtyard. None of the guests who were meant to be there were there. It was a little chilly and overcast, as it usually was in London. Not particularly good weather to laze in a garden.

Hence why the guests who were not meant to be there currently occupied the small gazebo in the centre of the courtyard. There were a couple of ghosts there, a collection of rather serious men of varying shapes and sizes, in the middle of a meeting. No wonder they felt vague disgust, meetings weren’t exactly the most enthralling things in the world. None of them looked like any sort of ghost that died this century. None of them looked like they wore anything from the same era either. Quite a few of them were donning military paraphernalia. 

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley could properly hear what was being said at this meeting. But that didn’t stop Crowley from interrupting them. “Army ghosts! Mind if we join you?”

“Crowley, we should wait for them to finish-” began Aziraphale. Crowley had already seated himself beside a ghost with a rather large hole in his chest, and was making himself comfortable.

“C’mon Aziraphale, don’t want to be late for… whatever this is.” He turned to give the rest of the ghosts his full attention. “So what _ is _ this all about? Nice place for a meeting, by the way, great choice, great scenery.”

“Why thank you, young man, I chose this space myself,” said one ghost who still looked quite dignified, if you ignored the fact that he looked like he’d been caught in an explosion. “But I am afraid this is a secret and private meeting for members of the Witchfinder Army only, so we must ask you to leave.”

“Witchfinder Army? Never heard of them,” continued Crowley, ignoring the invitation to exit. Aziraphale took a seat next to Crowley, hands fiddling nervously. “So you guys find witches? How do you manage that?”

“Hold, Major Pulsifer,” cut in a rather rotund ghost, wearing clothing that seemed actually from a similar era to Aziraphale’s. Less upper class and fancy, but similar enough. “This man may be a witch.”

“What, me? Noooo. What about me screams ‘witch’ to you?”

Aziraphale quickly glanced at Crowley, whose clothes comprised of various shades of black, who had unnaturally red hair, and who wore sunglasses when it was definitely not sunny. He kept his mouth shut.

“How many nipples d’you got, boy?” the rotund ghost continued aggressively.

“Uhhh… Normal amount.” Crowley played with the idea of asking how many nipples witches had, but decided that that was neither here nor there.

“Enough of that question, Lieutenant Dalrymple,” snapped the exploded ghost. “It is unreliable in identifying witches.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s breathing air and still talking to us!” The mood shifted. It seemed that they mostly didn’t realise that Crowley was, in fact, alive.

Aziraphale cut through the mood before it worsened further. They knew that at least one ghost among the group could possess clothing, he wasn’t keen to find out if they could possess anything else that would prove more harmful. He got to his feet, standing between Crowley and the mob of ghosts. “Erm, excuse me, if I may interrupt. Could I have your attention please? Thank you, yes, ah… hello. It is true that Crowley here is capable of seeing spectres such ourselves, but I can assure you that he is certainly not a witch. No, rather, he was, erm... cursed?”

Crowley tilted his head so he could see the others without looking through Aziraphale. “By a witch,” he chimed in, so that Aziraphale didn’t lose faith in the story he was fabricating.

“Yes, a mean, mean witch. Just the meanest. So, I think we’re all on the same side here, are we not? No need for any of that nasty violence now.”

Aziraphale was eternally grateful that they didn’t sense his fear and take it to mean that he was completely lying. Most people would be fearful if a mass of spectral beings were on the verge of burning your valued business partner at the stake, after all. He felt them calm down and diffuse of most suspicion, and he let out a non-existent held breath.

“It is not like we can accurately test if he is a witch or not,” said the exploded ghost. Pulsifer, was it? “We do not have the proper equipment.”

“Perhaps we could lend a hand!” Aziraphale offered, stepping aside as he felt Crowley no longer needed shielding. “You see, Crowley and I, we are in the business of helping other spectral beings to, ah, pass on, so to speak. Do you know what’s holding all of you back? I’m guessing it must have to do with all of this witch business.”

“That is a noble mission. Almost as noble as ours,” said the ghost named Dalrymple, standing to attention. “We, the Witchfinder Army, will not rest until our great nation is completely rid of the disease and vile corruption that is witchcraft! Even our deaths will not prevent us from fulfilling our duty!” The loud chatter of agreement rippled through the group.

“The whole nation? Sounds fun,” drawled Crowley as he exchanged looks with Aziraphale. That certainly did not sound like fun. Especially not for them. Neither of them had the time to purge all witches from the United Kingdom. Okay, maybe Aziraphale had the time, but he just didn’t want to spend his time that way. “Soooo, how do you get rid of witches?”

“Traditionally, we burned them at the stake,” explained Pulsifer. Yeah, neither of them were going to do that. ‘But the Army has adjusted our methods of witch purification throughout the centuries.”

“One blast of my trusty Thundergun purged many a witch, back in my day,” Dalrymple proclaimed with a puffed out chest.

“Burning at the stake. Guns. Sure, of course,” said Crowley, lips pursed.

“You said that your army adjusted your methods through the centuries,” said Aziraphale. “How do modern, living members of the Army deal with witches?”

“Alas, they do not,” said Pulsifer, voice growing solemn. “It is unfortunate, but there are no longer any living members of the Witchfinder Army. We are all that remains. The people have forgotten the villainous craft of witchery, but it is still there, lurking in the shadows. That is why we must continue our duty, even in our afterlives. This city alone reeks of witchcraft! Why, we chased off a witch only the other day.”

“The demon woman had sigils of the devil etched into her skin,” grumbled Dalrymple. “And no one even batted an eye! The people in this city are deep in the coven’s clutches.”

The woman who had been attacked by her own clothing must have had tattoos, Aziraphale presumed. Yes, he could see black, inky tattoos looking quite witch-y. Crowley had quite a lovely snake one by his right ear. The way he was seated, the other ghosts wouldn’t be able to see it properly. They could simply make up some poppycock about how it was related to a witch’s curse, if it were brought up. Speaking of Crowley, he seemed awfully engrossed in his phone. He had been for a while...

“Found a living Witchfinder guy,” said Crowley suddenly, flipping his phone to show them the screen. Aziraphale blinked. He knew the internet was fast, but he was still rather impressed. He shifted so he could see the screen too, while the group leaned in to observe the picture.

It was an image of an aged man with badges messily pinned to his ill-fitting clothing, orating in a public area with a giant and very detailed sign about how to sport witches. The members of the Witchfinder Army muttered amongst themselves, seemingly impressed at the minute detail of the sign, especially at the inclusion of the unordinary amount nipples as an indication of possible witch-ness.

“My word, the Witchfinder Army lives on!” exclaimed Dalrymple. “I knew there must have been good, sensible men still living somewhere in this country!”

“Hmm.” Pulsifer stroked his beard. “I would like to see how this man conducts his witchfinding. We need to assess his abilities. Considering the state of this city, I fear that they may be… lacking. Mr. Crowley, is it?”

“Yup,” replied Crowley, popping the ‘p’.

“Is your device able to find the whereabouts of this man?”

“Nope,” he said, still popping the ‘p’. “But I know the place he’s talking at, I recognise the building. ‘S a slim chance, but he might be there. I can show you which way it is, but you and your army gotta do something for us first.”

“What? What is it?”

Crowley jabbed his thumb backwards, pointing at the hotel. “Leave that hotel alone, alright? You’re scaring the staff and the other non-witch guests. Manager ain’t happy.”

Pulsifer sighed, and glared at Dalrymple and a few of the other excited and boisterous ghosts. “I knew we had been causing far too much fuss and interference. Don’t you worry, we shall leave this area in peace.”

“Right,” Crowley gestured for Pulsifer and a few other ghosts to come by his side to look at his phone. He’d opened that navigational mapping program, and was using what Aziraphale had been told was called ‘street view’ to show them how to get to the building.

“Hey,” said one of the ghosts on Crowley’s right. “That mark on your ear… It isn’t a-”

“Part of the witches’ curse,” Crowley and Aziraphale said in instant unison. Aziraphale couldn’t see if Crowley’s eyes met his, his glasses were too dark in the shade of the gazebo. Determining that Crowley probably wasn’t looking, Aziraphale turned the other way, allowing a little smile to grace his features.

~O~

Aziraphale didn’t spend every moment that Crowley was free with him. Of course not, that was suffocating! And inappropriate for business partners.

Speaking of business, they’d heard from the hotel manager about two weeks after they’d solved their problem. All the odd and constant occurrences had ended at the hotel, and the electronic mail gushed with praise and gratitude for the help. He had graciously left them a rather generous sum of money in Crowley’s Paid Pal. They didn’t hadn’t heard further from the late members of the Witchfinder Army, which Aziraphale took to mean that they had passed on. A job well done, he believed.

Anyway, he had no idea what Crowley was doing right now with the weekend. Aziraphale was currently browsing a little cake shop. He could have salivated at the marvelously fluffy cheesecakes and the gorgeously decorated cupcakes, but he maintained some restraint.

Right now, he was watching a boy with a nest of curly black hair gripping onto his mother’s skirt as his wide eyes were glued to a devil’s food cake. Ah, yes, the loveliest of temptations. Aziraphale couldn’t blame the child for becoming absorbed at its sight. In fact, he’d praise the boy for having such great taste. Oh, he did hope his mother would purchase that cake, for the boy’s sake. Hm, was there any way he could influence her decision to aid the boy…?

“Ah, it’s you!”

Aziraphale turned and saw Witchfinder Major Pulsifer, drifting in through the shop’s window. He couldn’t stop his eyes bludging in surprise. “Mr. Pulsifier?”

“_ Major _ Pulsifer,” he corrected, stopping by him with hands clasped behind his back. “It is terribly rude of me, but I am afraid I never caught your name, Mr…?”

“Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale is fine. I am… quite surprised to see you here. Did the living member of the Witchfinder Army disappoint?”

“Oh, no, quite the opposite.” Pulsifer remained mostly stoic, but Aziraphale still caught waves of satisfaction emanating from him. “Sergeant Shadwell seems like a fine man to continue the Witchfinder Army’s mission. Does everything by the book, and he even has all the proper equipment. I had thought he would be an inadequate addition to the Army, as this city is still plagued heavy by witchcraft, but I had not realised the immense size of the city. The sergeant is truly the noblest of all of us, tackling such a dangerous city all by himself. A fine man indeed.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, I suppose. But… why are you still here? Shouldn’t knowing that your legacy continues be enough for you to rest?”

Pulsifer blinked at him with surprise. “Not at all! This city will be fine in the sergeant’s hands, but there are a number of other cities that are in need of our services. We cannot rest until our dream is fulfilled.”

“Your... dream?”

“Yes. Our dream of a witchless world. A world where people can live free of the devil’s clutches. There is no rest for the wicked, and so we too shall not rest. On that note, I must bid you farewell. The Witchfinder Army is moving on. May we both meet on the other side, Aziraphale, when we have broken free of our earthly shackles.” And with a tilt of his hat, he floated off.

Aziraphale waved goodbye, offering a weak smile as he departed. Once out of sight, Aziraphale wrung his hands uncomfortably. Behind him, he heard the boy began to cry as his mother refused to buy him the delicious cake.

How nice it must be for a ghost to have regrets. The emotions attached were terrible, of course, but at least they had a shackle to break, a request to fulfill, a clear path to the afterlife. Even if the regret seemed impossible to mend, it still existed it was still a clear goal to work towards.

Aziraphale looked down at his own unbound hands. Existing in eternal freedom, yet also existing in eternal confinement… He would say that that was no way for anyone to live, but he wasn’t technically alive anymore, was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I just post things when I get hungry... I'm honestly starving right now... That may have to do with the fact that I've only eaten a biscuit for breakfast... I want sushi...
> 
> Anyway! Thank you ever so much for reading! I'm incredibly nervous about how this chapter turned out (but I'm always nervous about everything so it's nothing new), so I would appreciate some criticism or any such things! :D Make sure to stay fed and hydrated, everyone, and have an amazing day! :D


	3. Haunted Shops and Mistaken Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people enter the bookshop past closing time.

The building on the corner of an intersection in Soho, London, seemed to be a bookshop. It was filled with books, extremely rare books, but there were not many indicators that it was a shop.

There never seemed to be any staff at A.Z. Fell and Co.. But there must have been at least one staff member. There was someone flipping the sign from ‘CLOSED’ to ‘OPEN’ every day, there was someone who lit and replaced the candles, there was someone who made sure the place wasn’t too dusty, and there was someone who returned all the books to their proper places after visitors had haphazardly placed them in all sorts of places around the shop.

There was an antique till near the front of the shop, so it at least maintained some sort of illusion of being a functioning shop. Though, if anyone cared to open it, they’d find it completely empty. Unsurprising, considering there was seemingly no staff to buy the books from, and how ludicrous the prices were.

So why had no one tried to steal these very, very rare books? Well. That would be rude.

People who have  _ tried _ to remove any books from the premises were suddenly overcome with a feeling of how utterly rude it would be take the book. It was a feeling akin to someone taking a child from a mother’s arms. It really was not a good feeling, so people just didn’t try to take any books away more than once or twice.

Reading the books didn’t seem to incur that feeling, so there were a few regulars to the shop who liked to curl up on a lavishly plump chair and leaf through a book or two to pass the time. It had been asked several times whether this place was a library, but not only could people not take books out to borrow them, they also seemed to be allowed to eat there. Anyone who’s been to a library knows how quickly they’d be chased out if they so much as munched on a single biscuit within their walls. But here, there were no bad feelings if someone came in with a sandwich or a cake from a nearby café. In fact, it almost felt as if it were encouraged to bring nice treats to eat while settling with a book.

There were many discussions about what on earth A.Z. Fell and Co. was meant to be. There was a whole subreddit dedicated to discovering the secret of how this bookshop that sold no books could remain open. Theories ranged from the place being a Mafia hideout to a place owned by a mysterious, eccentric philanthropist who just wanted to make a nice place to slow down and relax in the bustling city.

The only one that was constantly dismissed, but was technically the most correct, was that the place remained operational because it was haunted.

When he was alive, Aziraphale had been an avid collector of rare books in his spare time. As ghosts don’t exactly have property rights, he struggled to find a place to keep his books. Often, he had left them in abandoned houses or unused storage areas, but no matter where he placed them, there was always a risk that someone would take the books for themselves or they would begin to rot due to terrible conditions.

He must have complained of his struggles to Crowley at one point, because one day he had been given the shop as a present. To make up for all of Aziraphale’s birthdays that everyone had missed, Crowley had said. Not that that explained where he had gotten the money to run a bookshop that never sold books, but every time Aziraphale tried to ask about any logistics, Crowley gave a vague answer with some reference to his vague job. So Aziraphale learned to not ask, and to simply just appreciate this gift. It was probably the best gift he’d ever received. But Crowley didn’t like being overly thanked, so Aziraphale only thanked him with fond looks and silent appreciation. It became the place where Aziraphale spent most of his time in between working cases and viewing newly opened eateries and cafes, hence why it had quite erratic opening times.

It was closing time, which was to say Aziraphale wished to spend the rest of what little evening was left alone. He had just finished chasing out the last customers of the shop. He didn’t have powers to chase them out directly without scaring the living daylights out of them, so he simply floated by them until they felt uncomfortably watched enough to leave. It worked every time. It just took varying amounts of time to chase them out, hence why it also had quite erratic closing times.

As the door clacked shut, Aziraphale peeked through the window to make sure no one was watching, before flipping over the sign to ‘CLOSED’. Technically, he could just always have the bookshop closed and just have it as a private library… Actually, yes, why didn’t he do that?

He didn’t have much time to ponder over that. The door slammed open, rattling some of the trinkets adorning the walls and nearby desks, though thankfully not knocking them over. Ah bother, he’d forgotten to lock the door. Aziraphale soon was face to face with the person who so wilfully ignored the clearly marked ‘CLOSED’ sign. This person, a bespectacled young man with dark, tousled hair, had walked backwards right through him. It wasn’t like Aziraphale could feel people pass through him but… well, how would you feel if something walked right through you? It was one of the many things Aziraphale had just never gotten used to as a ghost.

But nevermind that. This young man really wasn’t supposed to be here. But it wasn’t like he could just ask him to leave. Aziraphale had resigned himself to another few minutes of staring intensely at this man until he left.

It wasn’t until the young man picked up a letter opener and pointed it at his direction did Aziraphale notice something was amiss. Could… could he also see him?

“Hello? Anyone in here?! I need help! Something’s after me!” he cried out, glancing behind him as he trembled all the way down to his boots. His grip on the makeshift weapon was quite shoddy, if Aziraphale did say so himself.

“A letter opener won’t work on me,” Aziraphale said, softly but cautiously, still unsure if this man could hear him. Hm, no, he was still glancing around. Aziraphale held out a hand to him, but the young man didn’t so much as flinch. So he couldn’t see him. Disappointing, but not unexpected. Then it must be some kind of outside danger. Well, he wouldn’t be able to (figuratively) sleep at night if he didn’t help the young man, although helping the living with the living wasn’t exactly within his wheelhouse.

Unfortunately for both of them, Aziraphale was quick to realise that this issue was extremely within his wheelhouse. The waves of malice felt like ice spreading on his skin. The waves were faint, but growing stronger. They were getting closer.

Now, it wasn’t often that ghosts were outright malicious to the living. For the most part, they were only causing trouble accidentally. Sometimes they just felt rather cheeky. Maybe it was only a handful of times that he and Crowley met ghosts that purposely sought out to injure the living. He’d not had to face one alone for many, many decades, and… well, it simply was not a good situation. He needed Crowley here, now.

But first, he needed to get the young man into relative safety. He leapt into the young man’s jacket, taking possession of it, and pulled him into the back room of the bookshop. It was not easy. The man made quite an effort to get away, but Aziraphale managed the task eventually. He locked the door behind them as soon as he could, and almost immediately after he had done so, the young man jiggled the doorknob, in a right panic now. As the man did that, Aziraphale got a notepad and wrote ‘STOP!’ in large, clear lettering, with ‘Be quiet and take deep breaths, I’m not the one who’s trying to hurt you’ underneath. He shoved it in the young man’s face, causing him to stagger backwards a little. He didn’t take the advice to take deep breaths, but at least he wasn’t making a racket anymore.

“This isn’t happening… this isn’t real…” the poor man said to himself, stumbling to sit back on a chair with his head in his hands

“Oh, I assure you this is very real,” murmured Aziraphale, also to himself, as he flipped to the next page and scrawled what he wished to inform the man next. He floated over next to the young man, and nudged his shoulder gently with the notebook. The young man looked up and read the next message, which read, ‘Hello. My name is Aziraphale. We do not have much time, so I will be brief. Who are you, and why are you being chased by a rather peeved spectre?’

“Spectre? Like a ghost? Ghosts don’t exist,” the young man said reflexively. “But I guess I’m talking to one now. Oh, this is insane… Should I um… write it down?” He made some sort of gesture at the pen, looking around because he couldn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

‘No,’ Aziraphale wrote, ‘I can hear you just fine.’

“Okay… Okay.” He seemed to take a moment to regain his wits, before answering. “I’m Newton. Newton Pulsifer.” Pulsifer? Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. He briefly wondered if this boy may be related to Witchfinder Major Pulsifer, but then decided it really was not the time and place to ask. “And I have no idea why that… ghost.” Newton gulped, feeling ridiculous for talking to thin air and accusing something that shouldn’t exist. “I don’t know why it attacked me. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, and suddenly a bin lid came hurtling at me! Before I knew it, there were more things on the street that were being thrown my way, but there’s no one else around and all the shops are closed. Then I saw the lights in this place were opened so I just… I had to… Please, please help me.” He didn’t know what else to say, or who else to turn to, so he ended up sounding a touch more desperate than he intended.

‘Do not worry, I intend to help. May I please borrow your cellular telephone? I need to message my business partner so that he may aid us.’

Understandably, Newton stared incredulously at the notepad. One would imagine that ghosts would have some fantastical way of contacting other people, and not have to rely on something as mundane as sending a text. But hell, why not? This day was already terribly weird, he could accept the fact that ghosts could use phones, sure. “Sure, uh, um…” He reached into his pocket, and fumbled a little, before holding out his phone. He didn’t hold it out in Aziraphale’s direction at all, but that was okay. “Here, I have unlimited text, so um… go ahead.”

Aziraphale had no idea what ‘unlimited text’ meant, but he possessed the phone anyway. ‘Thank you’ he typed for Newton, before beginning to compile the message. Newton had two choices: nervously watch the door in fear of being discovered by violent ghost, or watch this helpful ghost text someone for help. He decided it was far less nerve wracking to watch the helpful one text.

‘Dear Crowley,

I’m afraid we have an emergency. This young man whose cellular telephone I am borrowing is in terrible danger from a rather malicious spectre. Please come to the bookshop immediately.

Yours truly,

Aziraphale’

If Newton hadn’t been clobbered by various objects on the street only moments earlier by an entity he couldn’t see, he would have pinched himself to really,  _ really _ make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Actually, yes, he pinched himself anyway to be absolutely certain. It was just that this guy (Girl? Non-binary person? He didn’t want to be rude but he didn’t have the presence of mind to ask right now. He was, after all, very much in danger.) was acting awfully relaxed in an extremely dire situation.

Newton jumped a little when the pen began to move again, producing that now familiar fancy font. ‘I must leave you here, Newton. The other spectre will be able to sense me, and if they approach me, it will endanger you. Do not be alarmed, I will be nearby. I will unlock the door, in the event that you may need to escape. Will you be alright by yourself?’

“Y-yeah,” Newton managed to say. “Th… thank you, Mr. Aziraphale.”

Newton couldn’t see the warm nod Aziraphale gave him. The pen and notepad landed neatly on his lap, and he heard the click of the door unlocking. It was probably his imagination, but he swore he could feel something leave, causing the air to grow still, signalling that he was now completely alone.

~o~

Crowley was going to teach Aziraphale how to text one day. He swore he would. Who the heaven writes texts like letters?! And who writes letters in an emergency?!

The Bentley shrieked as it ripped through the relatively quiet streets, zooming around and past the late night stragglers on the roads. He had been fast asleep when his phone had buzzed to life. He very nearly ignored the unknown number and dozed back off, but there was literally only one person in the world who would text ‘Dear Crowley’. Aziraphale willingly using text to message him was something to raise suspicion in of itself. Crowley knew he prefered to call people. Was he in a situation where he couldn’t talk? Crowley pursed his lips, and stepped on the gas pedal just a little more.

Once he got close to the bookshop, he spotted a familiar and slightly transparent coat. Oh boy, stealth was not Aziraphale forte. He was conspicuously peeking from the corner of an alleyway, fidgeting way too much. The car skidded to a halt, and Crowley performed the worst job at parking that he’d ever done. Aziraphale jolted at the horrendous noise it made, and turned to look at Crowley, placing an urgent finger to his lips. Crowley rolled his eyes, and slinked out of the car to join him. He wasn’t phased by Aziraphale gesturing him to hurry to the hiding spot where he was clearly doing a terrible job of hiding.

“What’s going on?” Though he seemed fairly relaxed, Crowley was even more attentive than usual. He had already observed where Aziraphale was fervently peeking at. The most notable thing about where he was looking was that there was no one there. And considering that there were often ghosts other than Aziraphale who frequented Soho just as often as he did, that was alarming. They were avoiding something.

“Hello,” Aziraphale greeted in a hushed tone. “Ah, so, as I said, that young man, Newton Pulsifer-”

“Pulsifer? Sounds familiar.”

“Yes, it’s- oh wait, never mind that for now, my dear boy. Anyway, he claims to have been attacked on the street by a bin lid, amongst other things.”

“And you’re sure it’s a ghost and not that the kid had a giant magnet on him or something?”

“It’s definitely spectral in nature. It’s emotions are rampant; it makes me queasy to be even this close.”

Crowley looked to Aziraphale, then at the direction he was gazing at, then back to him. “Alright. I’ve got this, angel. You just stay here. Where this kid you’re helping, by the way?”

“He’s in the bookshop, in the back room. Oh, but Crowley! I need to be close; if this spectre injures you-!”

“It’s nothing that we haven’t handled before. Fall back if it gets too much. They’re that way, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” And off he went towards where the waves of pure hatred were emanating from. Aziraphale gritted his teeth. This is why he had employed Crowley’s help to begin with; Crowley wasn’t affected at all by spectral emotional signatures. He could help other ghosts pass on without being overwhelmed by them. Aziraphale knew that but… He took a deep breath, and willed himself to edge forward, even just slightly. No use. It was like icy fire. He gripped onto his own clothes, for now only able to stare helplessly at Crowley’s back.

Nothing they haven’t handled before, huh? Well that was a blatant lie. Their past experiences with threatening ghosts had all been different. One had even tried to drown Crowley with spectral slime. Yeah, that one he tried very hard to forget. Point being, he had no idea what to expect, nor what the extent of  _ this _ ghost’s powers were. Didn’t sound like they could make slime, though, so that was good. For now it sounded like it was simple possession of certain items, specifically a bin lid. He could handle a bin lid being thrown at him, sure.

There. Movement. Crowley stopped, and looked to his side. It was a wedding shop, with a shadowy figure perusing the aisles and backrooms. Crowley slid his eyes down, noting that their feet were definitely not touching the ground. So, this was the source of Aziraphale’s discomfort, then?

He tapped on the glass. Two purple lights turned to him, piercing the darkness. Fortunately, Crowley was wearing sunglasses, so it was only vaguely irritating to look directly at. It was vaguely humanoid, but otherwise it seemed to simply be a blackened gaseous mass with two searchlights for eyes. The ghost then leapt at him, slamming against the window, having a better look at him.

“Hi,” drawled Crowley, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets. The ghost edged back an indiscernible amount. The corner of Crowley’s lips quirked upwards. It was always funny, seeing a ghost taken aback.

His expression then settled into a light frown, as the ghost slid off the window and began to drift away to the next store. Crowley followed, now peering into a darkened pub. They were floating through the tables, and went behind the bar. Alright. They leapt at him, but then went away (rude). So they weren’t out to hurt him. They were going through shop after shop, scouring quite diligently, from what he could see from the outside. Hm…

Oh. Hunting. They looked like they were hunting. Well, that wasn’t good.

“Oi! Hey!” Crowley rapped on the window. “Yeah, you, gas cloud! I wasn’t done talking to you.”

The searchlights were on him again, moving with unnatural smoothness. “ _ whAT? _ ” Oof. That was not a nice sounding voice. Listening to that voice was like rubbing his eardrums against a cheese grater. “ _ whAT dO yOu wAnT? _ ”

“I should be asking  _ you _ that,” he responded. “You dropped something? Did ya need a hand?”

They didn’t seem to be able to make much subtle expression. Understandably so, there was nothing subtle about having ghostly headlights for eyes. That being said, they seemed to be thinking something over. Perhaps the unusualness of being able to talk to a living person had intrigued them enough to distract them. “ _ I nEEd TO fInd hIm AGAIn. hE SLIppEd AwAy. hE RuINEd hER.”  _

“Sounds nasty. So who’s this ‘he’ you’re talking about?”

“ _ hIm. ROnALd hAyES. _ ”

Crowley didn’t really pay attention to the kid’s name, but he was pretty certain that that wasn’t it. “Right. Personal question, did you know when you died?”

They paused again. Would be rough to remember if its been a while. “ _ nInTEEn fORTy. _ ” Yeowch, yeah that was a while back.

“Alright, bear with me here. This Hayes guy. Young-ish? And you said ‘again’, so you found a guy fitting however you remember him, right?” The ghost blinked. Crowley took that as a yes. “And you’re aware that it  _ is _ 2019, right?” Another blink. He was just going to take that as a no. “So he wouldn’t he be an  _ old _ man by now? Assuming he’s even still alive.”

Silence. Crowley scratched the back of his head. “Still having doubts? Look, I’ll shoot straight with you. I did find the kid you attacked. I’m kind of… mediating this whole situation or something like that. Think of me as a neutral party. So as mediator, I’m going to cut you a deal. I’ll take you to the kid, but you have to look at him, and I mean  _ really _ look at him. If you  _ still  _ think it’s the guy you’re looking for, I’ll step back and let you do whatever you like to him. If it’s not, you gotta leave him alone. Sound good?”

The headlight eyes focused on the ground now, deep in thought. Then they focused back to him. “ _ ThAT SOundS REASOnABLE. _ ”

Oh, hell, that’s just what this ghost sounded like, huh? The voice distortion wasn’t just an effect of them being pissed off? Cool, super cool, Crowley appreciated his eardrums being slowly and gradually mulched. Really cool.

He jerked his head up slightly, indicating that the ghost should follow him. He began walking back towards the bookshop. He walked right past Aziraphale. It looked like he was able to breath and move a little more now, but he looked anxious, glancing behind him. Crowley lowered his glasses so that their eyes could meet. Neither of them had telepathy, but Crowley hoped his message of ‘cover us if it all goes downhill’ was clear enough. He fixed his glasses back into place, unable to confirm if Aziraphale understood.

Crowley didn’t need to confirm if the ghost was following him. Those spotlight eyes let out such an abrasive light. Felt like he was being followed by the worlds’ most obvious stalker, or like he was an unwilling performer in a mobile cabaret. He paused at the door that led to the back room. For all he knew, this kid might look exactly like this ghost remembered this other guy to look. Welp. If it breaks bad, he’d cross that bridge when they came to it. He knocked firmly on the door.

There was scraping and shuffling from the inside. “Who’s there?!” cried a muffled voice.

“It’s- uh…” Wait, this kid wouldn’t know him, would he? “Name’s Crowley. I-”

“Are you Mr. Crowley? You’re with Mr… Mr. Aziraphale? Their uh… business partner?”

Crowley exhaled heavily. How much did Aziraphale waffle on? … Hold on. “You met Aziraphale? You can see him and the others?”

“… The others?”

“Y’know. Ghosts.”

“No, Mr. Aziraphale, they um… they wrote on a notepad. To um, talk to me.”

Huh. Kid must have been really spooked for Aziraphale to reveal himself. Aziraphale didn’t like it when the living knew of his presence. Well, the living besides Crowley, of course. “Right. Well, open up, then.”

There was a pronounced pause, before the door creaked open. Oh good grief, no wonder this ghost was confused. The kid looked like every other young male adult in London. He could literally be the main picture on the Wikipedia page for ‘Man’. “You’re gonna wanna trust me on this, Glasses. Stay very still.” The headlights were now focused on the kid’s face, though he was completely oblivious to it. Crowley stepped back, allowing the ghost to rush forward and come uncomfortably close to the kid’s face.

“What?! Why?” Despite his interjections, Newton stood stock still, every muscle tensed. Though he couldn’t explain why, he felt that his health, his safety, and maybe even his life were on the line.

Crowley had his arms crossed, watching both the ghost and the poor kid as still as stopped time. He tilted his head to the side. From the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale looking wide eyed at the situation. ‘Don’t,’ Crowley mouthed. ‘Not yet.’ Aziraphale frowned, making some kind of gesture with his hands. An instruction of some sort? Crowley had no idea, it’s not a gesture that they ever agreed on.

The ghost drew away, and turned to Crowley. “ _ IT… IS nOT hIm. My dEEpEST ApOLOGIES. _ ”

“Don’t tell that to me, tell that to Glasses there!”

“Crowley, dear, you’re the only one who can, ah, translate for us.” Crowley whipped his head to the side, and found Aziraphale there, smiling in relief. Guess the emotions have dissipated. 

“Feeling better, angel?”

“Much better. You may want to help out poor young Newton, though. He looks rather lost. Excuse me a moment.” Aziraphale drifted forward towards the other ghost. “Ah, hello. My name is Aziraphale-”

At Aziraphale’s advice, Crowley tuned out of the usual spiel, and focused his attention on Newton. As far as Newton was concerned, Crowley had asked him to leave the room, stand very still, and suddenly started talking to himself. Or to the ghosts?

“Oi, Glasses, the ghost said sorry.”

Newton shook his head slightly to chase away the muddled thoughts in his mind. “I beg your pardon…?”

“The ghost that chased you. All part of a big mistake. They said sorry, so you’re not gonna get pummelled by bin lids anymore. Woo. You’re good to leave now.”

“Um. R-right.” Newton looked at Crowley like a lost puppy. “Before I head off… Could… could you explain to me what on  _ earth _ just happened?”

~o~

They were now a few days removed from that incident. It had been a rather long talk, explaining things to Newton about who they were, stuff about ghosts, and clearing up that whole misunderstanding, followed by trying to figure out what this ghost’s regret was. It was exhausting for Crowley, who already wasn’t in a pleasant mood from being abruptly awoken, and who had to act as a ghost translator for Newton. Crowley pretty much passed out on one of the plush couches right after the talk; Aziraphale had found a nice cushy blanket to drape upon him. It wasn’t too bad of a sleep, all things considered. Aziraphale also made sure to move the Bentley to a more suitable parked position, lest it be towed.

“So, gas ball ghost is gone?” Crowley asked, taking a sip of wine with surprising grace, despite the slack grip he had on the glass.

“I do wish you would learn people’s names, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, flipping the sign of the bookshop to ‘CLOSED’, and definitely remembering to lock the door this time. “But yes, they’ve moved on.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “And if I may say, they felt rather pleased.”

It turned out that the ghost’s daughter had had a relationship of sorts with a Ronald Hayes, a young lad whose parents gave him more money than he knew what to do with. They’d fooled around as the young do, she ended up with a child, a son. And Hayes left. Though they had given her as much support as they could, their daughter remained a husk of her former self, never quite recovered from the shame of having a child out of wedlock. It was a different time then, after all. The ghost died in the Blitz, wishing they had taken vengeance on the fool, wondering what became of her daughter and grandson.

Aziraphale offered to help the ghost find out what became of their family and of Hayes. Newton had also offered to help, to everyone’s surprise, including his own. It wasn’t like he had much better things to do, and after such a wild night he might as well stick around until the very end. And he had to admit, he was a little curious as to who he’d been mistaken for.

Crowley was unable to help, because, well, he had to work. Also he didn’t want to help. He wasn’t interested in research. That was Aziraphale’s thing.

So off they went, scouring London for information. It appeared that the other ghost only had powers of possession when incensed, so Aziraphale had to manage the contact between them and Newton via the notepad application on his phone. It was certainly one of the most interesting experiences of Newton’s life.

After a few days, the ghost passed to the otherside peacefully. They never quite found out where Hayes had ended up, he disappeared after the Blitz. But after Newton guided Aziraphale through the Internet (for some reason, Newton seemed reluctant to touch a computer. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he didn’t particularly like using them either), they had discovered what had happened to the ghost’s family. His daughter had survived the war, gotten married, and had passed on since. His grandson grew up to live a humble life as a banker. They’d gone through the Facebook profiles of the ghost’s great grandchildren and his great great grandchildren… and they looked happy. They didn’t seem to enjoy the lap of luxury, but they were surrounded by family and friends, and they looked content. That was enough for the ghost to finally let go.

Crowley snorted. “They’re always pleased, Aziraphale.” He placed an emphasis on his name, as though saying ‘see? I do remember names.’ “You don’t resolve a regret with more regret.”

“I suppose not. How do you find the wine?”

“It’s  _ divine, _ ” Crowley said, tone lathered with honey. He smiled at Aziraphale’s scowl. “Too much?”

“You don’t like it at all, do you?” Aziraphale remembered that being quite a good year for that region… unless he was misremembering. It had been quite a while since he’d last drank… well, anything.

“‘S a little tangy. I can drink it just fine, though. Don’t worry about it.” Before Aziraphale could mope more, there was a knock at the door. Crowley raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re closed!”

“M… Mr. Crowley? Is that you?” called a voice from outside. “It’s me, Newton Pulsifer.” Crowley squinted. Why did that sound familiar…

“Ah! So he did come. Very good,” chirped Aziraphale, heading towards the door.

“Newton… Wait, isn’t that the kid with glasses? What’s he doing here?”

“I invited him, of course.”

Crowley didn’t have much of a chance to object, because Aziraphale opened the door and let him in. Newton nervously shuffled in. “Uh, hi,” he said, raising a hand in an unsure greeting to Crowley. Crowley responded with a curt nod, before settling his confused gaze at Aziraphale. “Angel…” As Newton did know of Aziraphale’s existence, Crowley didn’t bother to hide his conversation with the ghost. Still, it did take Newton a moment to realise Crowley wasn’t speaking to him.

“Entertain him for a moment, dear. I’ve got to get the papers.”

“ _ What _ papers?”

“The contract papers. I’m hiring him to help with our business. Oh, and to mind the bookshop on occasion.”

“You’re what now.” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an expression of displeasure. Crowley whipped his head to face Newton, who still nervously standing near the doorway. “He’s  _ hiring _ you?” With what money?! Aziraphale wouldn’t ever sell any of his books, and  _ he _ certainly wasn’t paying for a new employee.

“It’s just voluntary,” Newton assured him, seeing that Crowley was agitated. He’d only met Aziraphale a few days ago, and yet he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t tell his business partner about this. “I just… thought it’d be something interesting to do… erm, when I don’t have class. Thought it would be a good opportunity; not a lot of people get to work with a ghosts.”

“I was quite impressed with his research skills,” said Aziraphale, who was currently a floating stack of papers, slowly drifting towards Newton. Newton quickly shut the door, so that no one outside could, erm, see that. “He’s quite perceptive. He’d be a great help to us. Unless you want to continue researching for our cases yourself, of course.” Aziraphale gave an angelically innocent smile as a response to the calculating scowl he was receiving.

“Did you say he was going to mind the bookshop too?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You just want someone to chase out your ‘customers’ when you’re sick of them, don’t you?”

“That is certainly an added benefit to having a hire, yes. Ah, also. I had told him that you would provide him with professional reference for his voluntary service. You’ll do that, won’t you, dear?”

Crowley groaned, raising his sunglasses and squeezing the bridge of his nose to settle a growing headache. “You know what? Fine.” He turned back to Newton, flicking his sunglasses back into place. “Aziraphale said you want me to be a reference. That sound about right?”

“Oh, um, yes. If you don’t mind.”

“I could do that.” Crowley took a long sip of wine. “Guess you’re part of the team now. Welcome.”

“Oh, yes, welcome! Crowley, could you tell him I said welcome to our business as well?”

Yup. That headache was really pounding now. This was going to be… interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, if you can believe it, I was even more nervous for this chapter than the previous one. I'm feeling a little too sick with paranoia to say much more, so ahhh... yeah! Thank you for reading, have a wonderful rest of the day, and hope you tune in for the next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> ... I'm really hungry right now.
> 
> Oh, and uhhh... thanks for reading! It's my first time writing anything for GOmens, so I'd love some criticism or uh... whatever :D Feel free to chat with me on tumblr.hell too uhhhh my toombles account is @vividvexation, I'm always game to shriek about the ineffable dumbasses :D


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